


Just Another Rainy Day

by stileskolpath



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek Feels, Derek Hale is a puppy, Derek Has Feelings, Derek Has Issues, Derek and Stiles are Mates, M/M, Stiles Loves Derek, Thunder and Lightning, Thunderstorms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-24 13:29:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/940536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stileskolpath/pseuds/stileskolpath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Seriously, it rained so much in Beacon Hills that the town almost perpetually smelled of wet dog. No, that’s not a werewolf joke. But Stiles would have laughed anyway. </p>
<p>Regardless, the strangely frequent thunderstorms seemed to be the only thing worth mentioning these days, mostly because as far as the supernatural is concerned, all that kind of dialed down after Derek’s pack put down the Darach and the alphas."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Another Rainy Day

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this idea came to me randomly, and it took me a long time to flesh out, so it might be awful. Fair warning. I have trouble righting straight-up, pure fluff, so there is one angsty moment. But that’s it.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Check out the rest of my Sterek stuff at my blog: watchthewolvesrun.tumblr.com, and don't forget to leave kudos (if you liked it) and comment!
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> -Stiles Kolpath

The first time it happened, Stiles hardly thought anything of it.

Seriously, it rained so much in Beacon Hills that the town almost perpetually smelled of wet dog. No, that’s not a werewolf joke. But Stiles would have laughed anyway. Regardless, the strangely frequent thunderstorms seemed to be the only thing worth mentioning these days, mostly because as far as the supernatural is concerned, all that kind of dialed down after Derek’s pack put down the Darach and the alphas.

It had been almost three years since then.

It was during another one of these storms that Stiles had been driving home from work, turning the radio up over the sound of the water against the windshield, cold and wet because the heater in the jeep had broken again, when he had gotten a call from Derek. He knew it was him because his phone howled at him. Derek hated it, so logically Stiles kept it.

“Hey, Sourwolf. What’s up?”

“Where are you?” Stiles barely made note of his slightly-panicked tone.

“On my way home, driving through this torrential downpour. Why?” It was a relatively unusual question, considering the habitual pattern-based way Stiles liked to live his life.

“No reason. Just wondering.” Stiles squinted in suspicion at the phone.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, feeling something out of place.

“Nothing… Just, you know, be careful.”

“Okay. Love you.”  
“Love you too.” Stiles hung up the phone and looked at the screen with a puzzled expression as he turned into the lot that served as the unofficial driveway for Derek’s meatpacking-district loft. Pulling up as close to the overhang as possible, he grabbed his bag and bolted for the door, not even bothering to lock the jeep. Because seriously. If anyone broke into Betty, they would be extremely disappointed.

He climbed the stairs two at a time, hoping the extra movement would shake off some of the water he absorbed on his short, yet totally-drenching, run into the building.

When he pulled open the massive steel door, he found the apartment essentially empty. It was not unexpected, since he and Derek were usually the only ones actually living there these days.

“Derek?” No answer. It was odd, considering the werewolf could usually hear Stiles when he pulled up outside.

“Derek?” No response again, but Stiles heard shuffling coming from upstairs, from one of the other bedrooms, the one that had belonged to Cora.

He found the werewolf sitting in the closet floor with the door open, reading one of the books Stiles left lying around the apartment, his knees pulled almost up to his chest. It was kind of adorable.

As far as weird behaviors go in werewolves, this wasn’t that bad. Part of being one meant being really attached to smells, and ever since Cora left, or Isaac, Erica, Boyd, and the rest, Stiles would occasionally find his mate hanging out in one of their old rooms, or touching something that they had left behind, just to recapture their smell.

It was even worse with Stiles. He never saw it, but whenever he left for more than a day or so, he would always come back to find his shirts hanging in disarray in his closet, like somebody had taken them out and rolled around in them. Or worn each of them for a time. Derek really loved his smell, and he wasn’t complaining.

They all still came back every now and then, from college or from travelling, or sometimes just from their own homes down the road, but in the meantime, Derek would sometimes go and sit in Cora’s closet, or lay on Isaac’s bed, or paw at one of Erica’s dangly earrings on her dresser.

So finding Derek essentially curled up in Cora’s closet was not a suspicious thing. The suspicious part was that his eyes seemed to shift to red every time lightning flashed and thunder sounded a few seconds after.

“You okay, Der?” Stiles scooted back against the closet wall next to Derek, and laid an anchoring hand on his thigh. The werewolf seemed to start at the touch.

“No- Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Just in my own little world, I guess. Sorry.” His eyes began to fade back to their usual seafoam green-with-gold-flecks. “How was your day?” He closed his book and leaned his head back against the wall, turning it towards Stiles.

“Aside from this monsoon, pretty good.” Stiles launched into it, and barely noticed that they stayed in the closet until the storm had all but ended.

—

The second time it happened, Stiles had been coming home from a late parent-teacher conference, the usual evening hurricane threatening to drown the small Northern California town once more. He had gotten back, set down his bag and keys just inside the door, and began stripping off his wet clothes, because he forgot his freaking umbrella again. He made his way to their bathroom, not bothering to call for Derek, knowing he was probably busying himself with something in some random corner of the loft, or cooking dinner. He stepped into the walk-in closet and flipped on the light, and promptly jumped three feet into the air, giving a little yelp in the process.

There was Derek, curled up in the corner between the dresser and the wall, face plastered up against the wall with his mouth agape, a small stream of drool dangling from his lip. It took Stiles a second to realize what was going on.

Derek was sleeping. In their closet. In the corner. With the lights off. In what appeared to be some kind of seated fetal position.

Now this was weird.

Then it thundered. Stiles couldn’t see the lightning on account of, you know, being in a freaking closet, and it made his heart stop freeze in his chest. Stupid thunderstorm.

As the boom of it echoed through the apartment, Derek gave the smallest of whimpers, even in his sleeping state. If it didn’t sound like he was in pain, Stiles would have thought the sound was the most adorable thing in the world. Then he pieced the realization together as he watched his mate shift positions slightly in his unconsciousness.

Derek was afraid of the storms. The thought was enough to make Stiles smile at the adorableness of it all and feel immediately guilty for smiling at the same time. He fought to suppress a small laugh, because how on earth could a big, bad, alpha werewolf with razor-sharp claws, serrated teeth, and glowing red eyes who could growl, and snarl, and literally rip almost anything to shreds, be afraid of anything at all? Let alone a little lightning and thunder? He was a puppy. Stiles always suspected it of being true.

But then he thought about it. About all the shit that Derek had been through in his life. Hell, the whole family-dying-in-a-fire thing alone would have been enough to drive a normal person to insanity, just look at what happened to Peter. Add a healthy dose of Kate Argent and Jennifer Blake on top of that and Stiles wondered why Derek didn’t just go to sleep one night, and not wake up from the shittiness of it all. Yeah, don’t entertain that thought. No good feelings there.

So he finished undressing quietly, planning to not bother Derek, and snuck out of the closet on his tiptoes toward the kitchen to heat up some leftovers from the weekend, and ended up tripping over the completely flat bathroom floor and crashing into it with a resounding, relatively hilarious, thud. Outside, the rain continued, insensitively unaware of Stiles quietly dying on the floor just outside the bathroom. More electricity flashed across the sky, illuminating flickering shadows on the floor of the loft dramatically. Stiles cursed himself for being the least stealthy person he knew who was also somehow clumsier than Scott before the bite. And that was saying something. “Oh, you know, just… Thanks floor.” He pushed himself up, rubbing the places where he made contact with the offending surface, sure that it would result in bruises. Those would be fun to explain. At least Derek didn’t wake up at the noise, or the funny little yelp Stiles gave when he fell. The worst injury was only his pride, thankfully. He continued to the kitchen with a slight limp, having knocked an awkward knee against the floor during his less-than-graceful tumble. Fortunately, the floor didn’t attempt to impede him further as he reheated the lasagna he had made for Derek on sunday and made his way back to his mate’s impromptu den.

Stiles found Derek on the floor where he left him, still very much asleep, and whimpering quietly at the sound of the thunder reverberating in his ears. He quietly stepped over the threshold, gingerly putting weight on his leg, still sore from his fall. He paused at the sound of a new round of thunder, for fear of Derek waking up suddenly. He set about trying to rouse the werewolf from his clearly fitful slumber.

He was about to lay a hand on Derek’s knee when a particularly loud explosion of thunder blasted through the apartment. Derek came to with a start, instantly wolfing out and snarling. He lunged at the only other living thing in the room, shooting up from his curled position and slamming a claw to Stiles’ throat, knocking him backwards off of his feet. Derek followed him down as Stiles gasped for air.

In a second, the pressure around his throat ceased, and Derek’s wolfed-out face showed a glimmer of recognition. Followed immediately a pained, questioning look. Stiles was still trying to learn how to breathe again when the werewolf released his hold completely, and backed himself into the small corner, slumping backwards against the wall and glaring at the offending claw in his lap.

“I’m s-sorry.” Stiles heard through pounding ears. As if bookending the terrifying experience, the storm offered yet another unsympathetic barrage of thunder. Stiles caught the slight, meant-to-be-stifled whimper that slipped past Derek’s lips, and the way he locked down his eyes at the sound, and cover his ears with his claws.

Stiles managed to pull himself back against the wall, clutching his throat as his ability to metabolize oxygen returned to him. He breathed in and out. Slowly. Carefully. In and out. The increasing regularity of his breaths calmed his heart’s hammering. It wasn’t the first time Stiles was attacked by a werewolf, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last, he guessed. There were certainly the occasional downsides to being one’s mate. But that came with the territory.

“So I’m going to sidestep the whole rage-y thing you just did, and address the larger issue here.” Stiles breathed, clinging to his mildly sarcastic defense mechanism as he got used to the feeling of breathing again. “You really don’t like storms, do you?” He coughed through his raw throat involuntarily.

Derek was staring sullenly at the ground, eyes wide with pain. He shook his head silently.

It pulled on Stiles’ heart. He rubbed his throat absentmindedly, and decided against his better judgment to scoot closer to the alpha until their toes were touching.

Stiles continued as if Derek had answered anyway. The werewolf’s usual loquaciousness made conversations largely one-sided, so Stiles had learned to improvise. “Why though? You never had this problem before. Hell, every time one of those assholes we dealt with would show up, the clouds would go all dramatic and thundery. It happened like three times alone with Deucalion and his penchant from the dramatic.” Derek wasn’t meeting his gaze. Didn’t even react to Stiles’ obvious humor. Instead, he had pulled his knees up and wrapped his arms around them, eyes unfocused and glaring holes into them.

Then Stiles realized why Derek reacted the way he did. It hit him like a Mac truck. Or you know, like the floor had, earlier.

“That’s why, isn’t it?” Stiles’ gaze focused on Derek’s. The werewolf looked up, if only slightly. Stiles scooted closer, until he was up against the barricade that Derek had created with his knees. He wouldn’t budge, or answer. Stiles glared at him petulantly. “C’mon, Der. Let me in.”

Still, Derek wouldn’t move.

So Stiles, frustrated, got up and walked to the other side of the dresser they shared, and pulled, slowly attempting to drag it across the floor. It took more force than he realized, and he squeaked inadvertently as he tried to pull.

In Stiles’ defense, it was solid wood, and probably weighed at least three times what he did. But he was nothing if not persistent, and eventually it began to slide, rasping slowly across the floor as it moved. He pulled until a small space opened up next to his mate, who was giving him a one of his customary side-glares. That happened so frequently that it didn’t even bother Stiles anymore. The human surveyed the space he had created, finding it just big enough to accommodate one Stiles Stilinski. With a satisfied nod, he walked back around the dresser and slid down the wall until he was tucked between Derek and the large piece of furniture. Derek eyed him suspiciously. Stiles mirrored Derek’s position and pulled his knees up, resting his forearms over them, and cocking his head to the side to consider the silent werewolf, who he noticed, still had not shifted back.

“Okay, Der. You don’t have to talk. Just listen.” Stiles sighed before launching into it.

“First thing’s first. I know what’s going on inside that big, pretty, wolfed-out head right now. I’m not hurt. Stop beating yourself up about it. I startled you. I should have been more careful.” Stiles knew that Derek wouldn’t just have instantly shut off his internal guilt machine at that point, so he kept talking. “Second,” Stiles paused for a second, suddenly unsure of the words he wanted to use. “But I get it. I do. Back then,” he gestured with a wave of his hand towards the opposite wall, the obvious location for all things occurring in the ‘past.’ “Each new threat, each new problem created a veritable shitstorm in our lives; Peter, Kate, Matt, Gerard, Victoria, the alphas, Jennifer. They created a lot of pain, and on more than one occasion, came close to taking everything away from us. They came after you, me, Scott, Allison, Lydia, Isaac. All of us. So I understand. I do.” He wrapped an arm around Derek, and locked onto the side-glare he was still getting from Derek’s alpha-eyes with his own. “But you don’t have to be afraid any more. It’s been years. Nothing is going to come breaking down your door, or steal me away from you in the dead of night, or murder-rampage through this town. It’s just us.” Stiles was letting his hand gently rub wide circles into the alpha’s hunched back as he talked. Derek seemed calmer, but he knew that he was still trying to fight off his own mind. “And after all the shit we’ve- hell, even just you, have been through, a little jumpiness is to be expected. At the very least.” Derek uttered a muffled growl, but there was no edge to it, and Stiles took it as quiet permission to continue talking.

“And you know what the third thing is, Sourwolf?” Derek surprised Stiles by speaking for what seemed like the first time ever. His voice was hoarse, and it left his mouth with that adorable, barely noticeable lisp that could be heard whenever Derek spoke through his wolf.

“What?” Stiles counted it as a win, albeit a small one.

“I still love you, no matter what.” He leaned in and kissed the side of Derek’s head, pulling him closer to him with his arm as his nose tickled against the long, black hair. Derek’s eyes slid shut at the touch, a little more calm working its way into his features. When Stiles pulled back, he slipped one hand around the back of one of Derek’s, letting their fingers intertwine. Derek gripped it tightly. Stiles smiled. And winced, because apparently he had whacked his hand when he tripped over nothing before. He wondered who was more the mess as he sat there with Derek, dozing off next to him as the storm howled outside the walls through the night.

—

The third time it happened, Stiles was ready. He had checked the weather and seen the storm coming. Derek had gone out to grab food, and it was Stiles, for a change, who was actually at home. When Derek got back, it was just beginning to rain.

Stiles reached down with one hand and grabbed the bag of chinese take-out, and with the other, he took Derek’s hand excitedly.

“Where are are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

“Ugh, Stiles, I’m hungr-” Stiles cut him off.

“Just shut up and come with me, Sourwolf.” Derek obliged of course, with an exaggerated sigh and an eye-roll, as Stiles led him to their walk-in closet.

On the floor, in the same exact place Derek had been curled up last time, Stiles had piled all the pillows from their bed. He had also draped a sheet from the top of the dresser to the wall above the closet door, creating a small canopy of sorts. In the corner with the pillows, Derek’s comforter was spread out, Stiles’ laptop sitting atop it.

“Did you seriously build a fort in our closet?” Stiles gave Derek a shit-eating grin.

“Duh. Like that question actually merits a response.” Stiles let go of Derek’s hand and half-crouched into the fort, setting down the food next to the laptop before crawling the rest of the way and slouching against the pillows in the corner, a come-hither look on his face. Derek rolled his eyes again.

“You are going to do that one day and detach a retina or something.”

“I’ll heal.” Derek retorted.

“I’ll laugh.” Stiles chuckled.

“Asshole.” Derek was already kicking off his shoes.

“Just come here already.” Stiles began pulling the containers out of the bag, somehow managing to open just about all of them around himself while he thumbed through a small stack of DVD’s at his side.

Outside, the first crack of thunder could be heard. Derek stiffened briefly, and quickly clamored inside, sidestepping the small collection of Chinese food containers and DVD’s that Stiles was with on the ground to curl up around the human himself. He pretended not to notice as Derek pressed up against his back, wrapped around him comfortably.

“So what do you want to watch? I got Tron, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Total Recall, and the last Twilight movie.”

“You have Breaking Dawn? Why?” Derek forgot all about the storm and focused on judging Stiles on his horrible taste in movies.

“Because the werewolves in it talk more, and are prettier,” Stiles said absentmindedly.

Derek bit him gently on the side, drawing a sharp gasp of pain from the human.

“What was that for?” he rubbed the spot where Derek had clamped his mouth a few seconds earlier.  
“I talk,” he protested.

Stiles laughed way too hard. Derek glared at him. “Sidestepping the fact that you know the title off the top of your head, it’s good to know you aren’t worrying about not being as pretty as Talyor Lautner.” His laughter died down as he put the dvd aside in favor of a container of chicken fried-rice and shoved a clump into his mouth.

“So you’re feeling better,” Stiles said through the food in his mouth. Derek averted his eyes from Stiles, who figured he was still hating himself for what happened last time.

“This- this helps.” Derek seemed to seriously consider the words as he uttered them.

“What, the fort, or me?”

“Both.” Stiles smiled at his mate as he swallowed the rice in his mouth, giving Derek a playful nudge.

“But mostly you.” Stiles was in the process of shovelling more fried rice into his mouth. He stopped, placed the fork back into the container and set it down with the others. He twisted around, turning Derek’s face up towards his, and kissed him. It was their usual kiss. Nothing was terribly special about the way their lips fit together perfectly, or how it deepened as Derek’s breath caught in his throat and Stiles slipped his tongue past the werewolf’s lips, the usual warmth the contact brought rising to the skin on his face. Derek slid his hands around Stiles’ jaw the way that he always did, and Stiles moved to straddle Derek’s hips the way he knew his mate liked. It was all wonderfully, gloriously ordinary. And Stiles loved it. He secretly enjoyed the fact that nothing had tried to kill him or his friends in years and that the worst thing he and Derek had to deal with was the occasional, oddly intense, thunderstorm. But that was what chinese food, sci-fi movies, and sex in pillow forts were for. And as Derek worked to keep their lips together, he began undoing Stiles’ jeans to get at the center of the warmth emanating from his mate.

As if in response, outside the loft in the pouring rain, thunder rolled through the sky broodily, vibrating the loft’s windows in their frames. If Derek heard it, he gave no sign. Stiles smiled into Derek’s mouth, because after it all, this was just another rainy day.


End file.
